Chapter 158 — Skin Him! Skin Him!
"Roose… Bolton!"
The moment that name hit him, the Mountain's skull began to ring like a struck bell.
So loud, in fact, that even the agony in his severed legs seemed to dull.
This whole time, they'd ridden under the Dreadfort's banners, burning villages, skinning corpses, staging horrors—framing the North, framing House Bolton.
And now?
The man they'd chased for half a day…
the one who'd cost him his best helper…
wasn't some random scapegoat.
It was the Dreadfort's lord himself.
They used his name… and then bumped into the man it belonged to.
Gregor stared at the pale man being dragged forward, that sickly-white face like carved wax.
He opened his mouth—
then closed it again.
With his tiny brain, he honestly didn't know what to say.
---
Roose Bolton was escorted forward by two royal knights.
His eyes flicked briefly to the Mountain lying in mud and blood.
He had never seen this man before—yet here he was, using Bolton banners to commit atrocities across the Riverlands.
Still, Roose's face remained perfectly still.
Even with hands pressing his shoulders down, he straightened his back with deliberate dignity, raised his chin slightly, and spoke in a calm, righteous tone.
"Ser."
"Flaying… was indeed once an ancient craft of House Bolton."
"But it was nothing more than the crude refuse of an older age."
"Hundreds of years ago, when the final Red King bent the knee and swore fealty to Winterfell, we abandoned that tradition entirely."
He lifted his head higher, voice ringing loud and proud, as if making a proclamation to the realm itself.
"Since pledging ourselves to House Stark, the Dreadfort has lived as every loyal Northern bannerman lives—"
"Bound by Stark law… and by the civilization and order of the Seven Kingdoms."
"So the monsters who committed such unspeakable crimes in the Riverlands—"
His voice sharpened like a blade.
"Cannot possibly be the true House Bolton."
Powerful.
Firm.
Impeccable.
A flawless public defense.
Of course, for centuries the Dreadfort's dungeons had still quietly flayed peasants and prisoners now and then, preserving their skins like trophies—
but such things were never meant to see daylight.
Never meant to be spoken aloud in front of witnesses.
And more importantly—
the brute lying in the mud had no legs.
Even if Roose wanted to, that thing couldn't be skinned cleanly into a whole hide.
This Kingsguard had just thrown him into a pit.
A deliberate trap.
So Roose did what he did best—
he moved first.
He cut the rope.
He severed the connection.
He reclaimed Bolton innocence.
---
"No, my lord!!"
A roar exploded like a beast's bellow.
Everyone turned—
and saw the Mountain in the mud, bloodshot eyes burning crimson, staring at Roose with fanatical devotion.
"House Bolton's honor cannot be stained!"
"You can't bow your head to these southern bastards!"
He coughed violently, spittle mixed with blood spraying from his lips as he screamed:
"Come—skin me!"
"Let these filthy idiots—these lowborn cowards who hide behind the Iron Throne and fart orders from safety—look with their dirty eyes!"
"Let them see!"
"Let them SEE what a real—what a REAL…"
His voice tore itself raw, nearly shredding his throat.
"FLAYER LOOKS LIKE!!!"
He howled like a martyr.
Like a zealot ready to die for his house's honor.
A heroic sacrifice.
A righteous loyalist.
A patriot.
---
Roose Bolton's face was the image of frozen calm.
But for the first time—
just for the briefest moment—
even that glacial mask twitched.
A microscopic tremor at the corner of his mouth.
A single crack in the ice.
This damned imposter…
Even dying, he wants to pin the entire slaughter on me.
When have I ever even met you?!
---
Then—
a low, cold chuckle came from beside him.
"Heh…"
Lance's laughter was quiet.
Almost gentle.
Yet somehow, it made the air colder.
Gregor's performance was laughably obvious—so obvious it would've fooled only the stupid and the desperate.
But Lance didn't expose him.
Not immediately.
This thick-skulled brute was playing "dead agent" theater?
Using death itself as the price, determined to splash filth across Roose Bolton's name, forcing the Lord of the Dreadfort into a corner he could never crawl out of.
Interesting.
It was very interesting.
Because what the Mountain had just done was simple—
he had placed Roose Bolton over open fire.
If Roose refused Lance's command?
Then he proved one thing:
He couldn't bear to have his "man" flayed.
He hesitated.
He protected his own.
And that hesitation alone would be enough to rot Bolton's name across the realm.
But if he accepted—
People would only assume they were working together—putting on some twisted little "self-harm performance" to win sympathy.
A dead end either way.
With that thought, a cold, amused curve touched Lance's lips, as though he were enjoying an absurd stage play.
And yet… it had to be said.
For a Lannister hound, the Mountain truly was exceptionally useful.
---
"No!"
Eddard Stark stepped forward, his voice low but firm.
"We cannot force Lord Bolton to revive a savage, blood-soaked tradition that has long been abandoned, Ser Lance!"
"That would violate the honor of the North—and the laws of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Roose Bolton turned his head.
Only now did he truly notice the boy properly: the wolfskin cloak heavy with rain, dragging on narrow shoulders like a burden meant for stronger men.
And those eyes—
gray, unwavering.
Then his gaze drifted to the chest clasp of the cloak…
The direwolf of House Stark.
Stark.
Roose had met Brandon Stark before. The eldest son had been… memorable.
But this was not Brandon.
And Brandon was already dead.
Which meant—
The Stark imprisoned in King's Landing…
There could only be—
---
"Lord Eddard Stark."
Lance's voice confirmed Roose's judgment.
But the title itself struck like a hammer.
---
"This is not reviving tradition," the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard said calmly.
His tone held no anger—only inevitability, the pressure of something that did not accept refusal.
"This is Lord Bolton proving his innocence."
"Look at him."
As he spoke, Lance drove both greatswords into the ground with a heavy thunk, then pointed toward the legless butcher in the mud.
"This damn slaughterer—he and his men committed crimes across the Riverlands."
"Every single one of them is enough to see him swinging from the highest gallows, his guts picked clean by crows!"
"So we are merely returning to him—exactly—the pain he inflicted upon the innocent."
"Whether or not he is truly a man of the Dreadfort…"
Lance's gaze shifted to Roose Bolton, sharp blue eyes like steel hooks.
"…he has committed unforgivable sin, Lord Bolton."
"I can choose to believe you."
"I can even choose to pardon you."
"But first—use your blade. Skin this man."
"And then, in front of all witnesses, swear loyalty—by the name of the gods themselves—"
"To the only lawful Lord of Winterfell, ordained by His Grace."
"Lord Eddard Stark."
His words dropped like shackles.
Then Lance stepped closer—voice turning colder, sharper.
"You will swear that you will devote everything to assisting Lord Eddard's return to the North."
"You will help him overthrow the 'Mad Warden' Rickard Stark—"
"That disgrace who defies the King's will, insists on kindling war, and drags the entire North into shame—"
"And you will rip him from Winterfell like filth from a boot."
---
Lance's demands locked Roose Bolton into place like iron bars.
Only now did the Lord of the Dreadfort understand—
Whether he truly led the Riverlands atrocities…
was no longer important.
Because this was never about finding the culprit.
This was about forcing the North to fracture.
---
"Lord Eddard Stark…"
Roose Bolton's pale eyes shifted again to the boy in the wolfskin cloak.
His breathing grew ever so slightly faster.
Truth be told, he had never imagined—even once—that a king as foolish as Aerys could make a decision this… clever.
A masterstroke.
A stone thrown into an already divided North.
Splitting loyalties. Turning clans against clans.
Yet what Roose found most interesting…
was that the Stark child most praised for honor and righteousness—
the one who ought to hate King's Landing with every breath after his brother and sister died here—
had accepted the king's appointment without hesitation.
And not only accepted it…
He intended to return North and contest his own father for Winterfell.
How fascinating.
---
But then Roose's mind moved deeper.
If Lord Rickard could be toppled…
and a new Lord with weak foundations raised in his place…
Would that not become an opportunity beyond measure?
A young lord raised as an Arryn foster-son—isolated from his own bannermen, inexperienced in Northern politics—
would need support.
Would need pillars.
And Roose Bolton, the first to pledge loyalty—Roose Bolton, with power and reach across the North—
could become the Lord's most indispensable "right hand."
Or, if fortune allowed…
Roose could make him a puppet.
Even better.
If only his dead father had bothered to gift him a sister or two—something to marry into Winterfell—
Roose even believed he could live to see a child of Bolton blood sitting the ducal seat.
---
"Lord Eddard Stark!"
With that, Roose's lips hinted at the smallest curve—so faint it might've been illusion.
But his face remained calm, graceful, sincere.
He stepped forward, eyes filled with earnest devotion.
"Back when your father convened his council in Winterfell, I warned him."
"But Lord Rickard… it was as though a wicked thirst for vengeance blinded his eyes."
He sank to one knee.
His voice became passionate, thunderous, convincing.
"I, Roose Bolton—who has squandered half a lifetime within the Dreadfort—only regret that I did not meet a worthy master sooner!"
"If you will have me…"
"House Bolton shall become the blade in your hand—absolute in loyalty—helping you reclaim Winterfell!"
---
"Come on, Lord Bolton!"
The Mountain lifted his head with what strength remained, blood-red eyes fixed on Roose with burning provocation.
"Just like you ordered me to do to those Riverlands trash!"
"I raped their women—killed the men and children while they screamed—then peeled the skin off and hung it at the village gates like banners!"
Then he roared toward the royal soldiers, as if spitting curses into their faces.
"Listen here, you southern bastards!"
He coughed blood, voice turning even more rabid, as though he meant to drown Roose Bolton in filth even from beyond the grave.
"After I'm dead, Bolton glory—Northern iron hooves—will trample the Riverlands into dust!"
"Every last one of you will be slaughtered—none spared—"
"And you'll be turned into fresh skins, dried beneath the sun, hung on the Dreadfort walls!"
"Hahahahaha!!!"
---
Roose Bolton's expression darkened.
Not with fear.
Not with panic.
But with the cold irritation of someone who suddenly realizes—
someone, somewhere, wants him ruined so badly they are willing to pay for it in blood.
Under countless eyes, Roose rose to his feet.
At his side, a guard silently placed a slender, black leather roll into his hand.
Roose slid his fingers inside—
and drew out a special blade, thin as a cicada's wing.
He turned to Eddard Stark, whose face had gone pale, and spoke solemnly:
"Watch closely, Lord Stark."
"This time… I will take up this vulgar art once more."
"But only to prove to you…"
His voice sharpened like a vow.
"The loyalty of the Dreadfort."